


Skeleton Keys

by overthemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Pianist AU, Pianist!Sherlock, and I overuse the trope of Sherlock using music to express his feels, because Gaytectives kept begging for it, if you squint basically Sherlock proposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthemoon/pseuds/overthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music is the key to unlocking any heart.</p><p>Sherlock plays strange music for days on end, then abruptly asks John to accompany him on a personal trip.  Why?</p><p> </p><p>  <i>For the past ninety minutes, Sherlock has been sawing away at his violin’s strings, dangling distressed notes around the flat. John winces on behalf of the poor instrument. Sherlock sighs and swirls, the hems of his dressing gown swishing around his ankles. “I’m fine,” Sherlock says, playing a cranky upscale.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Skeleton Keys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loyalnerdwp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/gifts).



> THIS IS [GAYTECTIVES](http://gaytectives.tumblr.com)' FAULT. SHE ASKED SO HARD FOR PIANIST SHERLOCK THAT I CAVED.  
> Thank you to [a_xmasmurder](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder) for the beta.  
> [The original gifset](http://gaytectives.tumblr.com/post/50231243422)

Inside an old manor with a mostly empty household, a dead piano waits. The small grand piano lies under a white cloth cover to protect the invisible particles of dust from coating the scratched black paint with speckles of grey. The black and white keys still are coated with the small fingerprints of two children who hide inside a veneer of adulthood from the world around them.

Inside London, where modern civilization’s dissonant symphony of humanity leaves bloodstained bodies on flat floors, the world’s only consulting detective lives with his army doctor. Together they balance on the tightrope between thrill and fear, distracting themselves from the suffocating silence that a lack of purpose brings.

The glorious cacophony of crime means that their pauses of pain and loneliness can be overridden, at least for a few measures of time.

* * *

For the past ninety minutes, Sherlock has been sawing away at his violin’s strings, dangling distressed notes around the flat. John winces on behalf of the poor instrument. Sherlock sighs and swirls, the hems of his dressing gown swishing around his ankles. “I’m fine,” Sherlock says, playing a cranky upscale.

John shrugs, looking around at the unnaturally dust free surfaces which were previously occupied by old case files and experimental disguise equipment. “Okay,” he says. John plops down in his armchair, plumping up the Union Jack pillow behind him to get comfortable. He sighs. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Mycroft, does it?”

“No,” Sherlock says.

“Just wondering.” John flips open the newspaper and scans the headlines, lips twitching whenever a more dull crime headline pops up.

“He did come while you were out,” Sherlock adds. “I pointed out that he’s cheating on his diet.” He plucks a string. “Again.”

John shrugs. “So a typical encounter then.”

Sherlock shrugs, gentling the irritated screeching into a yearning staccato.

John rustles the news and lets the smooth notes drift past him, quietly blending with the faint noises of London life that manage to permeate the walls. He can’t name this tune; he can rarely name the tunes that Sherlock plays anyway, but the melody reminds him of an empty house, the way it refuses to echo with noise when no one lives there.

“Are you composing?” John asks.

Sherlock mumbles a “no” and John gives up on trying to make conversation. 

* * *

 

Three days later, Sherlock still stands framed by the window, serenading the thin layer of white snow outside with a song that shouldn’t resemble silence, but yet did.

 John stares at Sherlock as his flatmate gently sways back and forth, leaning aimlessly as the bow glides across the no-longer-tortured strings.

 “Sherlock?” John says softly. The bow halts. Sherlock swivels around.

 “Yes, John?” Sherlock’s back stiffens and he turns his head, refusing to meet John’s gaze.

 John blinks. “I made tea,” he says. _Are you okay?_ John doesn’t say, because he’s not sure he wants to know the full length Sherlockian answer.

 Sherlock nods his head. “All right,” he says. He sets the bow back on the string. “John?”

 John pauses in his trip to retrieve the tea. “Yes?”

 “I will be leaving in a few days to go on a …” Sherlock plays a low sour note. “Personal trip.”

 John nods and picks up Sherlock’s favorite mug, pouring the tea. “I would like it very much if you accompanied me,” Sherlock continues. “If you will not be busy then.”

 John pours his own mug of tea.

 “John?”

 “Of course, I will.” John leaves out the habitual _you git_. “It’s not like I follow you around all the time at your beck and call.”

 Sherlock nods. When he takes the tea from John, their fingers brush and a ghost of a smile flits across Sherlock’s face. Sherlock sets the tea on the windowsill, scented steam fogging the glass, and plays on.

* * *

 “Where are we going?” John asks, when Sherlock ushers him into a black car cloned from repeated Mycroftian threats.

Sherlock climbs into the driver’s seat, exhales, and clicks the key to start the ignition. “A memory,” he says.

The dull humming of the motor grows grating after a while, so John switches on the classical radio. It’s not as good as Sherlock’s music; there’s a Sherlockian element of cold precision and haphazard passion no professional could ever hope blend together the way Sherlock does.

John looks outside at the landscape as it rises and falls in square buildings and later bumpy green hills. John counts the number of sheep dotted on the hills and prays that the memory is a good one.

* * *

 Outside an empty manor, the world’s only consulting detective and his army doctor stand on the petrified porch while the grey sky watches.

“What are we doing here?” John asks.

“We’re not breaking in,” Sherlock says, fishing out a ring of keys and things from his pocket. “Technically, this place is mine.”

John’s mouth from an “o” shape; John tilts his head. “That still doesn’t explain what we’re doing here.”

The lock clicks open and Sherlock slips inside. “Sherlock?” John calls as Sherlock disappears into the dim hallway, footsteps fading away on the wooden floor.

John takes a deep breath, and follows Sherlock as that annoyingly mysterious git randomly turns through dusty hallways, leading John past covered photo frames and into a recital room with a cloth covered piano standing in the center. Large windows around the room cast overlapped spotlights of grey overcast light on Sherlock as he yanks the cloth off in a grand gesture, raising a cloud of dust. John coughs.

Sherlock carefully lifts and slides the black keycover open, props open the lid on the grand piano, humming to himself with a faraway look of concentration on his face.

John stands in the empty room, unsure as to what he should do.

 “Just... listen,” Sherlock says. He pulls the piano bench out and sits down, draping his fingers over the skeleton keys.

Sherlock plays.

 John listens as melody pours out, spilling into the room and flooding the halls with a sound he can only describe as bliss.

 Sherlock’s face is calm, fingers carefully dancing over the keys to coax the piano to life. John always feels something when Sherlock plays music; this song sounds of smooth sailing on a calm pond on a bright summer day. John can imagine a young boy dancing on the grass and staring up at the cloudless sky with wide open eyes; maybe the boy smiles and spins in circles before flopping over in the shade of a tree; maybe he gets an urgent promise to keep a secret, perhaps, and gives a solemn nod in return.

 The middle part of the song paints a picture of patient waiting with slow gentle repetition of a two note background melody. Sherlock pauses for a measure, and John shifts, wondering if he’s done. Sherlock’s fingers press down on the white keys, asking a question of hope, low chords making the high notes of the main melody stand out even more. Sherlock pauses again, and returns to a gentle lulling tune. John crosses his arms and pressed an index finger to his lips: he feels calm, like he’s just been soaked in a warm bath after drinking a few glasses of red wine, or he’s woken up to a gentle kiss on the forehead and a heartwarming secret just for him to keep.

 “You never told me you could play,” John says when Sherlock is finished pouring music into the air.

 Sherlock sighs. “You never asked.” Sherlock places his hands in his lap and takes his feet off of the pedals. “I learnt how to play as a child and never quite felt it was worth deleting.”

 John shrugs. “Well, I mean, the topic never came up.” He uncrosses his arms and recrosses them. “That was very nice music, by the way.” John looks away. “I mean, not that your music isn’t always nice, but this is much, much nicer than usual.” He smiles at Sherlock.

 Sherlock clears his throat. “I... Thank you,” Sherlock says. He stands up from the piano and walks over to where John is standing.

 Sherlock slides a signet ring off his right pinky finger. It’s thin and gold, with a small square insignia. John frowns and points at the unrecognizable ring.

 “Whose is that?” John asks.

 “It was my mother’s,” Sherlock answers. He twiddles with it in his hand. “She gave it to me when I was very little. It’s an heirloom of some sort, apparently. I used to almost never take it off.” Sherlock breathes out. “I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you here today.”

 John tilts his head. “Well, yes,” he says. As lovely as the music is, John still can’t answer the storm of questions Sherlock always leaves in his wake. He stares at Sherlock, trying for the umpteenth time to decipher the puzzle hiding inside Sherlock’s unintentionally enigmatic mannerisms.

 Sherlock looks away, at the piano where it is still uncovered, skeleton keys on display.

 “John,” Sherlock says. Sherlock closes his mouth, opens it again. He clenches his fists around the signet ring and looks at the ground, scuffs his feet on the floorboards and licks his lips.

 “Sherlock?” John’s voice wavers; John leans forward and licks his lips, unsure how to voice his concern and confusion.

 Sherlock shakes his head. “That was for Mummy,” he explains. “The song, I mean.”

 John blinks and frowns. “And you too,” Sherlock adds. “Just... It was for Mother first and then it was for you too.”

 John uncrosses his arms. “I...Okay. Thank you, Sherlock.” John nods.

 Sherlock holds the ring out to him. “It’s yours, if you want it,” he adds. “Mummy told me that I should tell her when I meet the most important person in my life.”

 John stares, confused.

 “The song!” Sherlock says. He gives a thoroughly Sherlockian sigh and spins around, throwing his arms in the air. “Must I spell it out?”

 “Yes?” John blinks, staring at Sherlock.

 Sherlock grabs John’s hand and puts the ring in John’s palm. “You’re important,” Sherlock says. “I don’t want you to leave.”

 John involuntarily curls his hand around the ring. “I wasn’t planning to, Sherlock,” he says. “I never was.”

 Sherlock tightens his hands around John’s wrists. “You keep leaving on your dates and keep going out to get some fresh air when... when you’re upset with me, and I upset you quite often.” Sherlock’s voice is low, his tone is rushed.

 “That doesn’t mean I’m planning to leave, Sherlock.” John sighs and shuffles closer to his consulting detective. “I don’t think I could if I wanted too. I need you too much.” He swallows. “I mean, you do upset me a lot, but the other parts are worth it. Most of the time.”

 Sherlock nods. “Good,” he says. “That’s …. That’s very good.” He loosens his grip on John’s wrists and dangles his arms loosely by his side.

 John lifts the ring up to the light and admires it, before trying to hand it back. “It’s your mother’s.”

 “She said I should give it to the most important person I know,” Sherlock says. “It’s you.” Sherlock leans forward and traces John’s arm with his fingers, gently tapping the muscles like the piano keys. “It’s always been you.”

 John smiles and slides the signet ring on his pinky finger. “Okay.” Warm contentment curls inside him. “But the song?”

 Sherlock cradles John’s hand. Sherlock says, “It’s titled Bliss. It’s how you make me feel, those nights you insist we stay home and have takeaway in front of the telly while you listen to me point out every flaw in those crap shows you make me watch.” John chuckles and shakes his head. Sherlock twines his long fingers in John’s short wonderful ones. “I want my mother to know I’m happy.”

 John smiles. _You make me happy too. Especially with moments like this._

 “Okay,” John says. He looks around the room. “Wait, so this is your house then?” He furrows his eyebrows and stares back into the depths of Sherlock’s eyes. “Your mother lives here, alone?”

 Sherlock shakes his head. “Her room was upstairs, but um. She's not there anymore." His lip twitches. "I don't think I'll wake her from her nap." Sherlock gives John that same shy smile from the first time they shook hands, that day a long time ago. “Why, do you want to meet her?”

 John shakes his head and slides his hand into Sherlock’s hand, squeezing gently. “It's fine. It's all fine,” he whispers, and kisses Sherlock. _Love you too._

* * *

 Inside an old manor, a dead piano dances to life; a tune of bliss plays.

Within the symphony of London’s war, the world's only consulting detective and his army doctor create room for measures and movements of happiness and peace.

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Even if it's just squeeing and flailing I would really like to know.


End file.
